Ever Ill
by Believe4Ever
Summary: Sherlock shivered violently and sweat poured down his face. This is a sick-fic. Nothing especially bad; rating may change to T, but probably not. Read and review please.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a small idea that popped into my head one day. Please review and let me know what you think. I'll be continuing soon, but this story won't be that long (at least I don't plan on it to be that long).**

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"Sherlock, you look pale."

The consulting detective gave his assistant an annoyed look. "Didn't you say just last week that I always look pale?"

"Well today it is even more so."

"What would you like me to do about it?"

"Stay home today and rest."

"You're worrying over nothing, John. I'm fine."

The ex-medic didn't look so convinced. But he knew that there would be no convincing the detective to sit down and rest. Not on a day where he finally received a case after a week of waiting. It was more of an assignment, really. They had to find and capture a drug dealer that had kept slipping out of the Scotland Yard's grasp.

Sherlock slipped on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Let's go, John!" he called, ushering John out of the flat eagerly.

()()()

"After him!" Sherlock commanded as their lead suspect took off running down the street. The detective and his assistant sprinted after him. The man they were pursuing weaved in and out of alleys, through large crowds, and even went so far as to go across rooftops. The duo followed swiftly.

John pumped his arms and kept urging his body to go faster, to move forward, and to catch this evil man. He thought motivation in his mind and pushed himself to run even faster. The ex-medic even noticed that he was starting to outrun Sherlock, and it made John smile, even though they were in the middle of a chase. The suspect rounded a corner and when John did the same not even five seconds later, he was gone; ducked into one of the various linked up shops down the street.

"Lost him!" John wheezed, breathing heavily from the big chase. "Well, what now, Sherlock? Have any idea where—" The soldier stopped when he looked back and saw Sherlock doubled over, barely supported by shaky knees, and struggling to get a deep breath.

Alarm filled John as he rushed over to his friend. He helped Sherlock sit down onto the ground and instructed him to breathe slower in order to lower his heart rate. After about ten minutes, Sherlock's breathing was still struggled, but more regulated.

"I am getting you home," John informed the detective. Before Sherlock could protest, John added, "I'm not letting you help out in this case until you feel better. You've done more runs than that without breaking a sweat, and now you can't even catch your breath. We are going home."

()()()

"You are being ridiculous, John!" Sherlock sighed as he sat in his chair. The blanket was still draped over his body and a fresh cup of tea was sitting on the table in front of him, untouched.

John was sitting in his own chair, reading the paper and barely even glancing up at his flat mate. "I am being perfectly rational, Sherlock. You nearly passed out on the streets."

"You're wrong."

"You could barely breathe! If we had run less than another block, you would've been passed out from lack of oxygen."

"You're over exaggerating."

"Oh, I am, am I?"

"Yes, John. That's what I'm telling you."

John looked up from his paper. "I think you're just trying to tell me whatever so you can get back on the case. I already phoned Lestrade and left him a message on his voicemail saying that you are not going to be taking anymore cases until you're better."

"But I am not sick. I don't even feel ill!"

"We'll see about that!" The ex-medic stood and made his way towards the bathroom to get a thermometer.

"I'm checking my experiment!" Sherlock called after him as he made his way to the kitchen.

"He's such a stubborn prat!" John growled as he looked through the drawers to find the thermometer. He finally found the instrument when he heard a dull thump coming from the front room. Confused, he made his way back toward where Sherlock had been. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

The soldier walked into the kitchen and gave a frightened yelp, dropping the thermometer to the floor. Sherlock was passed out on the ground, his body shaking and shivering like it was freezing even though he was still bundled up in his coat and scarf.

"Sherlock!" John called worriedly, rushing over to his friend. "Sherlock?"

But the detective was passed out cold.

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**Please review with your thoughts!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to all the support and reviews that have been given to this story! Please read, enjoy, and review on the next chapter.**

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Immediately, John checked his friend's pulse. It was slightly irregular, but not weak or anything to be particularly alarmed about. Next, he checked Sherlock's temperature. Even though his skin was cold and clammy, his internal body temperature was 102.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Definitely too hot.

John half carried, half dragged, Sherlock to the couch. After a couple of grunts and moans, he managed to lift the taller man onto the couch, still lying down. For someone who rarely ate, he was surprisingly heavy. The doctor removed Sherlock's coat and scarf—which he had never bothered to remove, because he said he felt cold—and tossed it onto the chair.

The doctor went down the hall and retrieved a cloth, came back, and soaked it in cold water from the sink. When he wrung out most of the water, but the cloth was still cold and damp, he came back and placed it on Sherlock's forehead. The unconscious man's expression twisted at the sudden cool cloth on his head but he didn't move further.

"I'd better put on some tea," John sighed as he went back to the kitchen. "Figures he'd work himself to the point of collapse!" John thought for a moment. "Now when was the last time he ate? It's Tuesday . . . He didn't eat during the weekend, I know that much . . . Yesterday? No, I think I got him to eat some toast in the morning, but that's not much . . . Friday he had an apple. I practically had to cram that down his throat! Thursday?" He thought hard. "That's right, he managed to get my date to leave in the middle of the meal so he stayed and ate her pasta. Drat!"

The last word was because while he was getting lost in his thoughts, he ended up pouring a little of the boiling water over his hand, rather than the cup. Trying to hold in his shrieks and obscenities, the ex-medic turned on the cold water from the sink and put in his hand. The skin was already turning a violent red. While his left hand was cooling down, John maneuvered his right hand to pour two cups of tea.

John brought both cups to the coffee table by the couch and set them down. His hand was already starting to burn from being out of the cool water, so he went to fill a bowl with cold water and soak his hand in it in the living room, in order to keep a closer eye on his friend.

About an hour later, Sherlock started to mumble in his sleep. John had nearly fallen asleep, with nothing to do but read his paper over again. He didn't feel comfortable leaving Sherlock alone, even if it was for the short amount of time of getting new reading material. He didn't want to turn on the tellie either, for fear of waking Sherlock before he was fully rested. But now Sherlock's words started to mutter under his breath.

"Now what is he dreaming about?" John wondered aloud, straining to hear his friend, even for the slightest bit of entertainment. He could barely make out the faint mumbles of his friend:

"Westside . . . Annie . . . Music . . ."

The ex-medic was confused for a moment and he tried to figure out the link between the words. After twenty or so minutes of pondering, he nearly exclaimed, "They're musicals!" His voice immediately hushed when he remembered Sherlock was still sleeping. But he was excited to have figured out the link! Westside Story, Annie Get Your Gun, and The Music Man. All of them were musicals, and pretty famous ones at that.

"Now why do you suppose he knows of those?" John asked himself, staring at his friend, still thinking hard. "He deletes unneeded knowledge. Why would he need to know musical titles?"

More time passed and no ideas came to mind. Finally Sherlock's eyelids opened and his usual bright intelligent eyes were dulled and unfocused.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, leaning over. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Yes . . ."

The doctor sighed in relief. "Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

"I guess I'm a little thirsty . . ."

John had long ago drunk both of the cups of tea, so he got his sick friend a glass of water until he could make fresh tea, since the last pot had gotten cold. Just as John was turning away to head to the kitchen, there was a loud smash and Sherlock moaned. The ex-medic swiveled around to see the cup of water smashed on the ground, glass shattered about, and water spilled all over Sherlock's chin and upper chest.

"Sherlock . . ." John groaned.

"Sorry, John . . ." Sherlock's words were slurred and he wiped his chin. "It was heavy . . ."

_All his strength is gone, _John thought as he fetched a towel and started wiping his friend.

"You must be careful when you're sick like this," the doctor advised the detective. He laid the towel on Sherlock's chest and picked up the glass gingerly.

"Your hand." Sherlock pointed weakly at John's hand, which was still an angry red, though he had soaked it in cold water for a long while.

_Figures Sherlock would be observant, even when sick._

"Oh, this?" John half laughed, dismissing his thought. "It's just a little burn. I made tea and a couple drops hit me."

"That's not a couple drops . . ."

"Okay, more than a couple drops, but it's not bad. Just rest."

John gathered up all the glass and threw it in the trash. He then made some tea and brought it to his friend, but was sure to help Sherlock drink it.

"I don't need help," Sherlock muttered in between sips.

"Yes, you do." He set the cup down and took his seat back in his chair. After a moment of silence, he asked, "Where did you learn about musicals?"

"Pardon?"

"In your sleep you were mumbling about 'Westside', 'Annie', and 'Music'. They're all like musical titles."

"Are they?"

John's expression soured. "What do the three mean, then?"

"Sometimes I'll dream of past cases . . . It must've been the one with Annie McMackle, an opera singer who was murdered in the music hall on the west side of London."

The ex-medic sighed. So he hadn't been correct after all. Like usual, he had thought too highly of his flat mate.

"So you've never seen the musicals?"

The detective gave a slight shake of his head.

"Well you ought to see them some time." John gazed off, thinking. "They're very popular. At least, they were. Good music, they have. It might even be interesting enough for someone like you to watch. Though you might be picking out every little detail and—"

John stopped talking when he realized that Sherlock had fallen asleep yet again.

"Well," the doctor sighed, "at least you don't look as pale."

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